Total pages in book: 116
Estimated words: 114068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 570(@200wpm)___ 456(@250wpm)___ 380(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 114068 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 570(@200wpm)___ 456(@250wpm)___ 380(@300wpm)
We get the babies settled in their bassinets in the family room, and then I help Wheeler go to the bathroom. It’s currently a two-person job. I’ve gotten pretty damn good at making the “padsicles” Wheeler uses to help with pain and swelling.
She says she’s hungry, so after I get her settled on the couch, I head to the kitchen and open the fridge.
I scoff, my throat closing in.
“What?” Wheeler calls from the family room. “Everything okay in there?”
“Yep. Just—we got a fully stocked fridge.” I mean that quite literally. There’s not an inch to spare inside the fridge or freezer; they’re packed so tightly with all manner of containers and bottles of wine and stacks of yogurt cups that I wonder if I’m going to be able to close the doors.
I grab the Post-it stuck to a foil-covered casserole dish on the refrigerator’s top shelf. Hi Mom & Dad! Feeding two babies is going to make y’all hungry. Here’s my riff on the grilled cheese y’all love so much! XO, Patsy.
A drawing of a unicorn is stuck to a Tupperware dome that appears to contain a cake. I smile, sniffling, when I imagine Ella and Junie helping their parents frost the cake in Sawyer’s kitchen.
“Your family moves fast,” Wheeler says. “I love them.”
Closing the fridge, I rest my forearm on the door and try to gather myself.
Actually, fuck that.
I let myself cry. It feels good.
Being loved this way, cared for this way, feels really fucking good.
Wheeler and I dig into some enchiladas Wyatt made, eating on the couch while staring at our sleeping babies, because—ugh, I truly cannot get enough of them.
“He looks like you,” I say.
Wheeler nods. “She looks like you.”
“Funny how that works.”
We both look up at the knock on the door.
“Don’t hate me,” I blurt.
Wheeler frowns. “Why would I hate you?”
“I know we said no visitors today, but…”
She sucks in a breath through her nose. “Duke.”
“I promise you’ll like this one.”
Her lips twitch. “Okay.”
“That was easy.” I rise from the couch with a groan.
She lifts a shoulder. “I trust you.”
My chest puffs out a little, the way it always does when Wheeler tells me that. Her trust isn’t easy to earn, and I know what a big deal it is that she’s given it to me.
I’ve barely opened the front door when I’m pulled into a hug.
“You look like hell,” Haines says in my ear. “I’m so happy for you!”
Laughing, I reply, “Nice to see you too, brother.”
“Oh.”
“What?” I pull back to look him in the eye. “Do you not like—”
“I love when you call me that. Don’t be silly. I guess I’m still mourning the fact that it’ll always be ‘brother’ but never ‘boyfriend.’”
“Haines Michael Rankin.”
Glancing over my shoulder, I smile when I see Wheeler standing in the hall, arms crossed over her chest.
“Are you trying to steal my children’s father away from me?”
“Yes.” Haines moves around me to hug his sister. “You’re officially a mom! Can you believe it?”
“No.” Wheeler’s laughing and crying all at once, and suddenly, so are Haines and I.
We bring him into the family room.
“Haines, allow us to introduce Margaret Rose”—Wheeler gestures to our daughter—“and Robert Haines Rivers.”
Her brother’s eyes go wide, his hand landing on his chest with a thud. “Are you serious?”
“Yes, Haines, we seriously named our baby after one of the best, most stand-up men we know.” I clap him on the shoulder. “Thank you for being so good to us. We love you.”
Haines wipes his eyes. “Let’s hope little Robbie here takes after me in the looks department too.”
Wheeler gently elbows him. “He already does.”
Ryder is the next to visit. He comes over the next morning, bearing gifts of lattes from the Caffeinated Cowgirl downtown and a pair of kids’ cowboy hats.
“For later, obviously,” he says, blinking away the moisture in his eyes. “When they get older and follow in our family’s footsteps. We’re always looking for more cowgirls and cowboys.”
Too choked up to reply, I just give my twin a tight hug.
“Can’t breathe,” he gasps.
“I love you,” I grunt.
I startle at the sound of a car door being slammed. Glancing across the room, I see a familiar truck parked in front of the house.
“Colt Wallace?” I look at Ryder. “Did you—”
“Invite him?” A pink flush works its way up Ryder’s neck. “I didn’t. No clue why he’s here.”
I follow Ryder out to the front porch, where Colt is waiting. He has one hand on his hip. In the other, he holds up a small, rectangular object.
My stomach plummets. I’d recognize that pocketknife anywhere. The slight arc of the handle, the dark grain of the wood. Why does Colt have Dad’s—Ryder’s—knife? And why does he look like he wants to kill someone?
I turn to look at Ryder, hoping for answers, but he’s staring straight ahead, his face a mask of…